


Curtains, or Frodo wonders if it really is possible to die of Mortification

by Lbilover



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Humor, M/M, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 18:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12371772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lbilover/pseuds/Lbilover
Summary: What is that old saying about best laid plans?





	Curtains, or Frodo wonders if it really is possible to die of Mortification

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of silliness from 2008 for an impromptu challenge to write a ficlet based on one of the 'Top 30 Signs You Are *NOT* Reading a Frodo/Sam Fic'. This is based on #19: _Sam goes into Frodo's bedroom to draw the curtains and walks straight out again_ , but I threw in a bunch of others which the discerning Frodo/Sam fan will recognize. :-)

“Good morning, Mr. Frodo!” Sam’s cheerful voice rang out as he strode into the master bedchamber to draw back the curtains. “’Tis a fine morning and no mistake.”

There was a curtain-ish sound, and Frodo cracked one eye open enough to see Sam, humming cheerfully beneath his breath, pulling back the heavy fabric to let the sun into the room. 

“Bath water’s heating and breakfast is keeping warm on the hob, sir,” Sam said, looping the satin cord around the velvet curtain and securing the end over a hook on the wall.

Frodo held his breath as Sam turned toward him. It was the moment of truth at last.

“I hope you didn’t sleep uncovered like that all night, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, frowning and setting his hands on his hips. “There’s evil humours in the air at night that ain’t healthy, or so’s my Gaffer says. Wouldn’t want you to go a-catching your death.”

And then he marched straight out of the room. 

Frodo let out his breath on a moan of dismay. 

Waves of excruciating embarrassment engulfed his body in flaming, burning colour. His buck-naked and extremely aroused body, that is, from which he had daringly kicked back the covers so that Sam might see it when he came in and be tempted to linger for a change. 

But far from being tempted to linger, Sam hadn’t even noticed Frodo’s stiff cock waving in the breeze, practically shouting ‘Hey, over here!’ and begging him to pay it some attention. 

Frodo mentally cringed and wondered if it really was possible to die from Mortification, as his Aunt Lobelia so often claimed when she contemplated Frodo and his position as Master of the Hill. 

Oh, how could Frodo have been so mistaken about the glances he and Sam had been exchanging when he sat in the garden of an afternoon, reading Elvish poetry aloud to Sam as he worked? He’d thought his amorous feelings returned, but now he realised that those shy yet lingering looks had meant nothing, or perhaps Sam had just been staring at the odd little gap between Frodo’s front teeth and wondering if Horace Drillbit, the Hobbiton tooth extractor, could do something to fix it. 

Obviously Sam didn’t find Frodo attractive at all. Possibly he even found Frodo repulsive, and when Frodo had pushed Sam into Rosie’s arms at Bilbo’s Party, so that he might admire Sam’s sprightly form as he whirled about the dance floor, Sam had actually enjoyed himself, and his later comment that Rosie had trod on his toes and had bad breath, had been the besotted observations of a love-struck hobbit who thought every aspect of his beloved, no matter how disagreeable, to be desirable.

Frodo squirmed against the sheets, and not because his recalcitrant cock was still aroused and clamouring for Sam’s touch. Maybe he should take an extended vacation to Buckland until the blush faded- if it ever did, that is. He’d probably end his days in Brandy Hall where young children would run screaming from the sight of him: beet-red from head to toe, grey-haired and wrinkled.

Morosely, Frodo tugged the sheet over his naked form. He wouldn’t get out of bed, he decided. Not ever. Not even to travel to Buckland to live out the lonely, miserable, Sam-less existence he deserved for being so foolish. Not content with covering his body, Frodo yanked the sheet right over his head and settled in for the rest of his life. Maybe if he was lucky, those evil humours Sam had mentioned were still in the room and would eventually kill him, if Mortification didn’t do so first- although if it hadn’t yet killed his Aunt Lobelia, it was probably too much to hope that it would do him in.

“Mr. Frodo?”

 _Oh no!_ It was Sam, back again. As if things weren’t bad enough already, he’d see the sheet tented out by Frodo’s dratted cock that simply wouldn’t accept that it was to remain a virgin, Sam-wise, for the rest of its (hopefully brief) existence. It had to be abnormal to maintain an erection for so long, especially when the object of one’s desires didn’t desire one back. Sam would think he was even queerer than he obviously already did.

“Sir? Are you all right?”

 _No! Go away!_ A peevish Frodo wanted to shout, and then said to himself, _Oh, sod it. I can’t keep cowering beneath the sheets like this. It’s ridiculous and undignified._

He lowered the sheet to chin level and gave Sam a sour look. “I’m perfectly fine, Sam,” he uttered through gritted teeth, trying not to give Sam a glimpse of the cursed gap.

_Just dying of a broken heart, that’s all. Not that you care a whit. You and Rosie will probably dance at my funeral._

“Well, thank Eru for that,” quoth Sam fervently, setting a small glass bottle on the bedside table. “It was hard enough to leave the room to get the lavender oil what with you a-lying there all naked-like and that pretty cock of yours practically begging me to pleasure it.” Sam shrugged out of his weskit and dropped it on the floor. “But I said to myself, ‘Now Samwise, you know Mr. Frodo’s that forgetful sometimes, what with his translating Elvish all the livelong day, and didn’t he almost burn down the smial once leaving the kettle on to boil the entire afternoon? If you go a-diving into bed with him, bob’s your uncle that the moment you need the oil, you’ll discover he forgot it, and then where will you be? And you a-dreaming of this moment ever since you was old enough to understand what them urges meant, and being right sick and tired of going off to the toolshed to take care of ‘em. Not to mention the mess on your sheets that your sisters tease you about.’”

Frodo goggled.

Sam paused with his hands on the buttons of his breeches, breeches that were a trifle too snug and had caused Frodo any number of sleepless, ultimately sticky, nights (and mornings, afternoons and evenings, too). “So, begging your pardon, sir, and hoping you ain’t offended, I thought I’d best trot off to the pantry first and fetch the oil. You don’t mind, do you?”

There was only one possible answer to this. Frodo (who had indeed forgotten the lavender oil) threw back the sheet, held out his arms, and beaming a wide, gap-toothed smile, said happily, “Oh Sam!”

~end~


End file.
